elise.writer

It's nearly midnight
But it's only 11:57
Soon, it will no longer be
Which I don't really understand
How one thing can be so here
So vivid, and the next
It's gone

Like how it's 11:58 now
And I suppose I'll write until

It's nearly midnight
Nearly that time from the stories
When the clock chimes and the
Notorious evil emerges
From the shadows

But not here, in this too-large bedroom at a disturbingly aesthetic vacation rental home

The silvery blue comforter than looks like a drip of liquid from the moon adorns the wide bed
Outside the thin window rock music and hammering drums blare all too loudly even though it's past ten

If I could run away
Leave my battered crocs from 3 years ago
Crumpled at the ornate stone doorstep
Feel the prickling grass and the occasional
Sharp stick and stone on the scarred
Soles of my runaway feet

If I could fly away

To the 16-year-old girl who
Lived five miles down the road, not too far,
And knew, accepted mistakes of her own, learning from them,
Because she was not ready to be a mother

Now she will unwillingly suffer through birth

There's no storybook good and evil
We've all got a little bit of good, a little bit of evil
And yet we cease to grasp the fact that
Denying that drop of evil is what sparks even more to awaken